Coal Mike
I knew a man named Mike who could squeeze a diamond so hard that it would revert back into coal. It was a worthless talent, but neat to watch. He ran on coffee, drinking at least ten cups a day. He said it kept his hands strong and his mind clear.
Mike was entertaining a dentist and a botanist at his condo on a Sunday morning when he thought to prove them wrong by performing his “magic.” He grabbed a diamond from the fruit bowl on his counter and gave it a squeeze. I sat in the corner of the room with the last cup of coffee in my hand, the last cup in the house. Mike hadn’t noticed, nor had he had a cup since the night before, and so I watched him bleed to death before my very eyes.
We buried him on a Sunday in an open field where they used to grow coffee beans. Coal Mike could squeeze a diamond into coal. It was a worthless talent–pointless and expensive as well. But still I chiseled a tombstone out of coal and wrote onto it, Here lies Solomon Grundy, in hopes that he’d return.